Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 17

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When the word spread that all the candidates had succeeded and would be promoted, the Gunroom was inundated with a horde of visitors. All of Harry's Sea Puppies descended en masse. They had heard about wetting down Harry's new rank and demanded to be allowed to participate in the ceremony.

The boatswains, signalmen and gunners came calling, each expecting to be given a can of coke or ginger ale. Musicians and buglers, instruments and drums in hand, crowded in. Sandro, Joey, and Randy appeared, looking for Ray.

The Canteen Damager smiled and wrung his hands in glee as 19 cadets handed over $5.00 each for a case of soda that had cost him $1.50, marked down, wholesale.

Tyler, aware that tomorrow morning would bring Captain's Rounds, tried to limit the damage a flood tide of pop would cause. He had the table and benches removed to the far end of the Gunroom and a large piece of clear plastic spread on the deck. On top of the plastic he spread sawdust he had scavenged from Chippy Chaps. He also decreed that tradition would be observed. The liquid could be poured over the newly promoted rating's new rank badge, or on the rating, for that matter. Spraying was not allowed.

There then ensued a heated debate over who would be wet down first. It was agreed that all those who had been promoted to Chief Petty Officer would be wet down first. Then Dylan pointed out that each Branch had seniority. Harry, for instance, was a musician, while the Twins were gunners, which everybody knew had seniority.

"Balls!" roared Harry. "I'm the biggest. I own the Pride of the Fleet. I go first."

"Bullshit," returned Cory. "Just because you have a big dick does not mean that you go first. Everybody knows that the Gunnery Branch is much more important than a bunch of horn blowers from the School of Wind!"

Harry puffed up with righteous indignation. "Horn blowers! School of Wind! Why, I'll have you know that if it wasn't for the Band not one of you left footed gits could keep in step!"

"And if it wasn't for the gunners your so-called Pride of the Fleet would have been blown off a long time ago!" retorted Val. "Not to mention the fact that the artillery is the Queen of Battles and . . ."

The Sea Puppies listened to the Chiefs arguing. They were not quite sure what the Pride of the Fleet was, but if anyone owned it, it had to be their Chief Harry.

"Queen of Battles, my ass!" countered Harry. "The last battle you were in, little man, was when you had a cock fight with your baby brother. And he won!"

Harry's battle with Val ended abruptly when a roar echoed throughout the Gunroom. "What the hell is going on?"

Chef was standing in the doorway, holding a huge bag of ice. "Faith and I though it was the Siege of Drogheda all over again! I could hear the whole of you yelling all the way to the galley." He threw the bag of ice on the table.

"Well, Chef, Harry seems to think he should go first, for his wet down I mean, and I think that Cory or Todd should," said Val.

"Actually, it's none of you." Chef turned and beckoned. Randy and Joey entered carrying a large box. "Sandwiches," explained Chef. "Where's Ray?"

Ray peeked out from behind Tyler. "Right here, Chef."

"What are you doing behind that big lug?" asked Chef.

"Got out of the line of fire, just in case," returned Ray with a smile.

"A fine lad. Smart, too," Chef said, beaming at Ray. Then he glared at Val and Harry. "Sure and it is Tyler who goes first," he said firmly, his glare brooking no argument.

"What?" Harry and Val looked at each other.

"Tyler?" Val shook his head. "But he didn't get promoted."

Chef agreed, but with a caveat. "Tyler was promoted last year and that makes him senior to all of you."

"But Chef . . ." Harry's face was a picture of deflated ego.

"Don't argue, Harry. Tyler gets wet down because he didn't get wet down when he got promoted."

"Aw, come on Chef, that was a year ago . . ." began Tyler.

"You didn't have a wet down. You're still a virgin."

Tyler began to sputter and Val cackled as he sniped, "And at the rate he's going he's gonna be a virgin 'til he's 30!"

Tyler gave Val a dirty look. "At least I have something to work with!"

"Silence!" roared Chef. "And don't laugh, paisan, you're next."

"What?" Val's widened. "What do you mean by 'you're next'?"

"Did you have a wet down, when you were promoted, then?"

"Fuck, Chef, until yesterday I didn't know what a wet down was! How could I have one?" returned Val.

"Watch you language, Val, there are children present," admonished Chef self-righteously.

The assembled Sea Puppies gave Chef a dirty look. Randy and Joey, out of just barely teenage solidarity, sniffed disdainfully. Children, indeed!

"Oh, we know what fuck means, Chef," piped up a tall, slim, strikingly handsome Leading Gunner. He had wheat blond hair and there was a familiar look to him. "What we want to know is what is the Pride of the Fleet?"

"Ask Harry. Sure and he's the wee lad to be corrupting your morals, so he is," replied Chef. He, as had anyone else with ears, had heard Harry's brags and boasts. Chef was not about to add lustre to Harry's parts. He quickly looked around the Gunroom. "Where in hell is Phantom," he demanded loudly.

"Right here, Chef." The Phantom staggered in laden down with a huge box. "Cold cuts and fixings," he explained to the curious cadets.

"I am not corrupting anybody's morals, Chef!" declared Harry.

Chef turned to the assembled Sea Puppies. "In that case, wait until he's had three beers. Then he will show you the Pride of the Fleet."

"I will not!"
Chef grunted and looked around. "And where, might I ask, is young Mike?"

"Who?" Tyler asked.

"Who? Who?" Chef yelped. "Mike is the ranking Chief on board, that's who Mike is, you sorry excuse for a Chief. In fact, he's senior to Val."

Tyler thought a minute. "Oh, Mike Sunderland, the Chief PTI."

Chef sighed and looked heavenward. "Yes, ye great galumph! Mike Sunderland, the Chief PTI," he mimicked sarcastically.

Tyler motioned for the tall, handsome cadet who had spoken earlier to come alongside. "Yes, Chief?" the boy asked in a surprisingly strong, bass voice.

"Knock on that door," instructed Tyler, pointing to the door that separated the Gunroom from the Petty Officers Mess. "When they let you in see if the Chief PTI is in there. If he is, tell him to get his ass in here at the rush."

The cadet nodded, knocked on the door leading to the Petty Officers' Mess and then entered.

Chef was still ranting. "Now then, where the hell is Phantom?"

Phantom raised his hand. "Right here, Chef."

Chef gave The Phantom a wicked smile. "You also get wet down."

"Me?"

Chef growled. He held his head and rocked from side to side. "Is there no one in this place that understands the Queen's English? Yes, you." He pointed at The Phantom. "Were you or were you not enrolled in RCSCC AURORA?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"But me no buts," roared Chef. "Were you, or were you not enrolled as a Chief Steward, and don't say 'yes, but'!" The Phantom nodded. "Well then, as a Chief Petty Officer (Steward), you are just as required to have a wet down as the rest of them," finished Chef smugly.

"But I don't have a uniform, Chef. I have a jacket, but it's at home and . . ."

"Bah!" Chef waved his arm dismissively. "Valentine darlin', sure and you're about the same size. You can lend the lad one of yours."

"Sure, Chef, but . . ." began Val.

Before Val could continue with his objections to Phantom wearing one of his uniforms, the door leading from the PO's Mess opened and Mike stepped into the Gunroom, suddenly apprehensive in the unexpected presence of so many cadets.

Chef almost choked at the sight of the Chief Physical Training Instructor, who was naked except for a red, white and blue striped posing strap. In addition, his body seemed to glow. Chef pointed a shaking finger at the terrified Chief PTI. "What," Chef demanded, his voice quavering from the shock of seeing Mike's costume, "is that ridiculous postage stamp you have covering your private member?"

Mike's whole body seemed to turn red from embarrassment. He had never expected to be interrupted in the middle of his posing exercises, or to be all but naked in front of so many of the other cadets. He looked down and barely managed to speak. "It's a posing strap, Chef. I was practising for my next competition and I put some body sheen on, to see what I'd look like and . . ."

Chef's choler rose so high that Ray thought he was going to have a stroke. "You . . . will . . . remove . . . it," began Chef slowly. "You . . . will . . . NOT NOW, YOU CRETIN . . ."

Mike, stunned, had begun to pull down his posing strap, proving to the Gunroom, and assorted gunners, Sea Puppies, musicians and buglers that he did, indeed, shave his body.

Chef was barely able to recover himself. He had been in the Navy for more years than he would admit to, and thought that he'd seen just about everything. A sailor in a striped posing strap had not been on the list. "Go and shower," he ordered Mike. "Remove that ridiculous makeup you have on. Return here at the rush, wearing your Class I uniform . . . no, you bring your uniform in here. Put on socks and underpants." He rounded on the Twins. "You two make sure he cleans up and get him dressed."

"But, I don't understand," wailed Mike. "All I was doing was practising my posing routine and then some kid . . ."

"You're going to have your wet down, so shut up and let's make this as painless as possible," whispered Todd.

"Yeah, don't provoke the old bastard. I think he's been drinking," muttered Cory under his breath.

"I heard that, Cory!" roared Chef.

"Yes, Chef, sorry Chef," apologized Cory as they hustled Mike into the showers.

Chef was off and running. He told Val and Tyler to change and to get Phantom changed. He ordered the Sea Puppies to unload the van, which held more food, tubs for the ice, and ice.

Halfway through Chef's tirade The Gunner, Kyle, Andy, and Dave Eddy entered the Gunroom. They looked on in amazement as cadets ran past them to the van parked outside. Those cadets who were to be wet down and who did not live in the Gunroom rocketed past, hurrying to their own barracks to change. Those cadets who did live in the Gunroom were ripping off their laundry, slamming locker doors, and generally behaving like mad things.

The Twins hurried past, pushing a naked Chief PTI forward, much to the merriment of the Sea Puppies.

"Hi, sirs, hi, Gunner," waved Cory.

"Bye, sirs, bye, Gunner," said Todd as they pushed Mike into the PO's Mess and slammed the door.

Chef continued to give orders. Randy and Joey, ineptly assisted by some of the Sea Puppies and General Training cadets, were busily laying out a mountain of food. Other cadets were pouring ice into the large galvanized iron washtubs that Chef had brought. Other cadets were ripping apart cases of pop and sticking the cans into the ice to cool.

From within the Chiefs Mess The Phantom whined loudly. "Come on, Tyler, it's only a wet down. I don't see why I can't wear my own shorts. They're perfectly clean and besides, everything's going to get wet and . . ."

"Shut up, Phantom," growled Val. "You wear a white uniform, you wear white undies. Now shuck those drawers and put these on!"

The Gunner and the officers began to laugh, which brought them to the immediate attention of Chef. "And where the bloody hell have you four clowns been, may I ask?" yelled Chef. "Off exercising your conjugal rights with the Commanding Officer's beagle, no doubt, while there's work to be done, is my guess!"

The Sea Puppies had no idea what "conjugal rights" were but since it sounded dirty they snickered appreciatively.

Kyle glared at the Puppies and was about to have at Chef when Fred, with a total lack of modesty, pushed down the navy blue boxers he had been wearing under his work dress uniform, and flashed his five-inch flaccid penis. Kyle's jaw dropped.

"Jesus," breathed Andy. "That kid has more than all of us put together."

Kyle nodded. "Sure would hate to see it angry."

"Stop gawking, you demented perverts!" shouted Chef. "There is beer to be cooled."

"Beer, what beer?" asked The Gunner.

"The beer that I put in Linen Stores this morning. Get it out."

While The Gunner and the officers began to take the beer out of the linen closet the cadets who had left what seemed like only minutes before flew past. Val, with a half-dressed and still protesting Phantom in tow, hurried into the Gunroom. "Randy and Joey," he pointed at the two Makee-Learns, "get him dressed. I have to change." He slammed past Andy and Kyle, almost knocking them over, and ran into his Mess.

Giggling, the two Makee-Learns began to show Phantom how to wear a silk and lanyard.

Cory and Todd brought Mike back into the Gunroom. The sight of their morning tormentor wearing nothing but his Jockeys and socks set the Sea Puppies to giggling all over again. Todd grabbed the nearest cadet, the same cadet who had earlier informed Chef that he - and the Sea Puppies - knew what fuck was. Aside from the fact that the trade badge on his gunshirt proclaimed him a gunner, Todd had no idea who the blond-haired boy was, and assumed that he was a new arrival from the fresh shorn look of him. "You, help Mike get dressed," he ordered. He looked at the cadet. "You look awfully familiar. Do I know you?"

"Todd," yelled Cory, "we have to change!"

The young cadet shook his head slowly. "Please, Chief, you know my brother."

"Who's your brother?"

The young man coloured. "Petty Officer Greene."

Todd paled. "Little Big Man is your brother?"

"My name is Matt, Chief, and please, don't judge me by my brother."

"You, uh, you help Mike, will you?" asked Todd shakily. He didn't know that Little Big Man had a brother! "I have to change."

******

When the shouting and tumult died down, and all the cadets, finally, were in place, Chef appointed himself Master of Ceremonies. With a bottle of beer in hand he called the proceedings to order. "Now, then, gentlemen!" he bellowed. Then he glared at The Gunner and the officers, shook his head as if in despair, and continued, "And I use that in the loosest of terms, there is a set protocol for wetting down a messmate." He took a huge drink of beer, all but emptying the bottle. He seemed to notice The Phantom for the first time and extended his hand. "Good evening, Phantom, glad that you could make it." He pumped The Phantom's hand and bowed low. "Sure and it's a wonderful night for a wet down," proclaimed Chef. "Clear and cool."

The Phantom raised his eyes. It was a warm night, very humid, and if the rumblings and grumblings in the west meant anything, a storm was coming.

Chef released The Phantom, and straightened. "Now, where was I?"

"Protocol for a wet down," prompted The Phantom.

"Oh, yes, so I was. Now then, the protocol is as follows: Tyler, because of his appointment as Master at Arms, goes first. Then Mike, because he was promoted before Val. Then Val, then Phantom."

The assembled cadets applauded politely.

Chef bowed, and seemed to notice The Phantom for the first time again. "Good evening, Phantom. A perfect night for a wet down, so it is. Clear and cool," bellowed Chef.

The Phantom nodded. Jesus, he thought, he's as pissed as a Billy goat.

"The order for Branch seniority, according to King's Regulations, 1949" began Chef with authority, "is the Gunners, then Boatswains, then the Signalmen, followed by the Regulating Staff. I need a beer, Stevie darlin'."

Like a kick in the balls, thought The Gunner as he handed over the beer.

"After the Crushers come the Engineers, then the Supply types, including cooks. Musicians are last." He stared pointedly at Harry.

Harry stared back. Why, he wanted to know, did he have to go last, when everybody knew that he was senior to Sylvain, who was only the Drum Major of the Bugle Band?

This immediately produced a chorus of boos from the Buglers, and much pounding of drums from the drummers. Sylvain, his honour as a Bugler, and a Drum Major, insulted, not to mention his Gallic pride assaulted most callously, called Harry a very dirty name, in French.

Harry replied in kind, calling Sylvain a very dirty name, in English.

The situation was deteriorating rapidly when Chef slapped them both on the back of the head, and demanded another beer. "Harry goes last," Chef commanded.

"That's just the way it is."

"Is not!" shouted Harry.

"Is so!" proclaimed Sylvain.

The Phantom, now realising that a very real rivalry existed, not only between the Branches, but also between the sub-trades in the Branches, remembered one of his sessions with The Gunner, and held up his hand. "Actually, Chef and Sylvain are right," he said quietly.

"Traitor!" shouted Harry. "And I thought you were my friend."

"I am. And because I'm your friend I'm telling you, Sylvain goes first."

Harry snorted. "And how would you, a mere Steward, know that?"

"I know, Harry, because unlike you I had a very stern taskmaster teach me some Naval History."

This oblique reference to The Gunner was not lost on Harry. The Gunner smiled. At least something had sunk in.

"And . . .?" asked Harry. He glanced at The Gunner, who nodded ever so slightly.

"And the Sea Cadets were modelled on the old Boys Brigade in England," said The Phantom quietly, ignoring the looks between Harry and The Gunner. "They all had bugle bands, not brass/reed and . . ."

Chef broke into a chorus of "The Men Of The Boys Brigade", interrupting The Phantom's lecture. He linked arms with Harry and Sylvain and marched around the Gunroom, singing off key, and very loudly. Partly to drown out Chef, three buglers, a drummer and one flute player took up the tune. Everybody clapped in time with the music and when the trio returned to their original position they were cheered lustily.

Harry grudgingly accepted that he would be the last Chief to be wet down. "Sorry, Harry, but that's the way of it," apologized The Phantom. "Too bad you're not Chief Drum Major."

"That is an Appointment and not a rank," pronounced Chef. "And where the hell is my beer?"

"In your hand," said The Phantom patiently.

"Now, then, everything's settled. We will follow protocol," Chef declared regally.

Under Chef's direction Tyler placed himself in the middle of the sawdust square. Chef belched loudly, setting the overhead light fixtures to swaying. The Sea Puppies giggled and Dave Eddy buried his face in his hands.

"In the absence of the Executive Officer, or the Lieutenant-at-Arms . . .", began Chef, sounding as if he were giving The Speech from the Throne.

"We don't have a Lieutenant-at-Arms," interrupted Todd.

"Keep silence in the Mess!" roared Chef. "In the absence of higher authority, Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent, as SCOPA, shall . . ."

"What's that, a social disease?" asked Andy.

"It is not!" Muttering something about ignorant colonials, Chef gave Andy a malevolent glare. "It is Senior Canadian Officer Present Afloat!"

"But we're not afloat," argued Andy.

"Chef is," muttered The Gunner.

Chef clutched his chest and assumed a hurt air. "Et Tu, Brute?" he asked The Gunner. This was the only Latin Chef knew, except for the responses at Mass, which weren't being used anymore, anyway.

Kyle stepped forward, a bottle of beer in his hand. Chef motioned for him to proceed. SCOPA smiled an apology to Tyler and poured a liberal portion of beer over the Canadian Coat of Arms sewn on the right sleeve of Tyler's jumper. Then he held out his hand. Tyler shook it and Kyle stepped away.

"Now then, the no longer virgin Chief's messmates will wet down his rank," declared Chef. "Stevie, I need a beer."

Val, Mike, then The Phantom stepped forward and each in turn poured beer over Tyler's rank badge.

Once the Chiefs had wet Tyler down, Chef ordered everybody to line up, officers and The Gunner first, followed by the Regulating Staff, then the others. Senior cadets were allowed beer, junior cadets and Sea Puppies cans of pop.

For the next few minutes Tyler endured a tidal wave of liquid. Beer and pop were poured down the back of his jumper. Beer and pop were poured down the front of his jumper. The back of his jumper was lifted up, and beer and pop poured down the back of his bell-bottoms. The front of his jumper was lifted up and beer and pop poured down the front of his bell-bottoms. When everyone had wet him down Tyler was a mess. He was sopping wet, and his uniform clung to his body.

Chef roared with laughter at the sight of the drowned Master-at-Arms. Then he beckoned for Mike to come forward.

As Tyler stepped away from the sopping square of sawdust Mike Sunderland took his place. Chef flashed the Chief PTI a gimlet look and leaned forward, an evil smile on his face. "And is it properly dressed you are, under your fine blue uniform?" he asked. "Proper pants and none of the Punchinello posing straps then?"

Mike assured Chef that was indeed properly attired, and offered to show Chef his tighty-whiteys.

Chef demurred and motioned for Dave Eddy to come forward and do the honours. Mike, although Special Branch, was on Dave's slop chit and since Dave was a commissioned Jock anyway, it seemed fitting that he wet Mike down first.

Todd watched as Dave did the honours and was followed by the other Chiefs. Behind the Chiefs the Petty Officers waited in an orderly manner, which was in marked contrast to the disorderly mob of Sea Puppies that was gathering in a grim circle around Mike. He had been their tormentor every morning since their arrival and it was payback time. Seeing the looks on the faces of the young cadets Todd wondered where they had hidden their pitchforks and torches.

Cory saw the horde of circling Sea Puppies, wolves stalking a stag, and snickered.

"What are you on about?" asked Todd.

Nodding at the Sea Puppies, who by this time were all but salivating in anticipation of their impending revenge, Cory quoted, "It is the duty of Chief Petty Officers and Petty Officers of all Branches to preserve Order and Regularity among the other men, wherever they are. This responsibility rests upon them whether they are on duty or not." He arched his eyebrow and smiled smugly. "BRCN 5.16(3)."

Todd returned the arched eyebrow. "There are 38 Sea Puppies by actual count. That is 76 hands poking, prodding and ripping my clothes off. You go and preserve Order and Regularity."

"Why don't we have a beer instead?" asked Cory as the last of the Petty Officers stepped from line of fire and the Sea Puppies charged, cans of pop in hand.

Throughout his wet down Mike kept a broad smile on his face. This was most attention anyone had ever paid to him, and his wet down, coupled with the memory of three massive ejaculations the night before, made him think that he was King of the World.

When Mike stepped aside, his smile still broad on his face, Chef harrumphed, and then grinned malevolently at the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor. "Valentine, my Etruscan cherub," he boomed, "stand and prepare to meet your fate." He leaned over and whispered to Tyler. "Your turn to get even."

Tyler grinned evilly and eyed the washtub of beer. His smile widened as he dug deeply to pull a chilled bottle of icy beer from the growing pool of ice water at the bottom of the tub.

Once again, Dave Eddy, in his appointment as Deck Officer, led off the barrage. While The Gunner followed Dave, Tyler found the church key and with deliberate slowness popped the cap of the bottle of beer in his hand. When The Gunner stepped aside, Tyler approached Val, saluted him and then poured a few drops over Val's rank badge.

Val's sigh of relief turned to dread as Tyler ceremoniously reached out and pulled at the waistband of his bell-bottoms and inserted the neck of the bottle, pouring the icy cold liquid over Val's genitals.

As became a Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, Val struggled to maintain his composure and a proper military posture as his penis shrank into a nub and his testicles retreated at a rate of knots, seeking the warmth of his crotch.

When the last of the beer glugged from the bottle, staining the front of Val's white trousers with liquid gold, Val sighed in relief. He sighed too soon.

Chef approached, bowed low and solemnly shook Val's hand. Distracted by Chef's unexpected civility Val did not see Chef's other hand moving. He did feel the handful of ice cubes that Chef slipped down the front of his underpants. Val gasped as a cascade of ice growlers turned (or so he imagined) his nub into a mere slit and his testicles into insignificant mounds of fur-covered skin. Then he spread his legs, wiggled his bum and smiled triumphantly as the icebergs slid down his legs and clattered to the tiled deck. He smiled sweetly at Chef, thanking God for boxer shorts!

Somewhat disappointed, Chef was gracious in defeat, saluted the victor and then stepped aside, leaving Val to the not so tender mercies of the other cadets.

When Val had been all but drowned in beer and pop Chef called loudly for The Phantom to stand and deliver.

The Phantom, who had been standing on the fringes of the horde of cadets avoiding The Gunner, stepped forward, a desperate look his face.

"Ah, Phantom darlin'," roared Chef. "There you are." He leaned forward a trifle unsteadily. "And are you ready for your wet down?"

"Yes, Chef," replied The Phantom shakily.

"Good, for it's a fine night for a wet down, so it is," returned Chef with a hiccup. "And there's none so deserving as you, so you are." He reached out and began shaking The Phantom's hand. "A fine night! Clear and cool!"

A peal of thunder in the not so far distance rumbled through the Gunroom, setting the lights to flickering and the Sea Puppies to tittering. Chef sniffed empirically and, after he had all but shaken The Phantom's arm from its socket, gestured grandly.

The Phantom stepped into the square and was immediately wet down by Andy, who as the Supply Officer was The Phantom's nominal Divisional Officer. Chef claimed pride of place and poured a beer over The Phantom's head. "You're a good lad, Phantom," he croaked, "a good lad." Then he pulled open the front of Phantom's trousers and poured a cold beer down the front. The Phantom grimaced as the cold liquid soaked his borrowed trousers and shorts. He also had visions of the Shrinkage Factor taking effect.

Chef roared, "Stevie, I need another beer."

Kyle and Dave followed Chef, pouring minute quantities of beer over Phantom's rank badge. Then The Gunner stepped up. "Don't worry, Phantom, I'll only do the badge," murmured The Gunner as he poured a small dollop of beer over the rank badge. "You look very handsome, Phantom. The uniform suits you."

"Please, Gunner, don't," muttered The Phantom, avoiding the man's eyes.

The Gunner lost his smile. "Phantom . . ." The Phantom shook his head and The Gunner moved away and once again the Sea Puppies, assorted Bandsmen, and a Hospital Attendant descended on the hapless Chief Steward.

The Twins were wet down together and they stood stoically as first their badges were wet down, then their heads. When The Gunner came up he poured a portion of beer over their rank badges.

Todd looked down as the amber liquid bubbled over his badge. "Thought you would," he grinned.

The Gunner grinned back. "Man can't wet down his sons in pop. That would be like drinking the Loyal Toast in water." Then he poured the remaining beer over Todd's head.

Cory laughed so hard his stomach cramped, then yelped as The Gunner poured a bottle of beer over him. "Jesus Christ!" howled Cory, "that's fucking cold!"

What none of the cadets knew was that canned pop chilled more quickly than bottled beer and that the longer the liquids stayed in the ice-filled tubs the colder they became, making the cold offerings of the senior cadets pale in comparison to the colder offerings of the junior cadets and the Sea Puppies. Accordingly, Cory was not prepared for the double assault on dignity when Kevin and Dylan assaulted his genitals and rump with Coca-Cola and ginger ale. Much to the amusement of the other cadets he pranced and danced, complained loudly that his dick was shrivelling from the cold, and vowed his revenge on all and sundry.

Todd, while not as vocal as his brother, was not amused and threatened both Kevin and Dylan with an abject lesson in pain and suffering if they dared to assault him as they had Cory. His tirade was interrupted when the two junior gunners, laughing crudely, added insult to injury by dropping a handful of ice cubes down the back of Todd's bell-bottoms.

The Twins' screams, howls, threats and imprecations fell on deaf ears as the other Chiefs, old and new, followed Kevin and Dylan's example. Harry, however, did not follow the lead of his peers. Laughing loudly, and with a gleam in his eye, he made the Twins' wet down more memorable by embracing them and the giving each of them what he called a "Harry Special". He kissed each twin on his cheeks, then full on the mouth. Mollified, and not to be outdone, both Todd and Cory slipped him the tongue.

Harry moved away, smiling, which left the way open for a general assault en masse by the gunners, after which Cory announced that the next time he had a wet down he was borrowing Mal's scuba suit and reinforcing it with an iron jock and fanny pads, swearing that all the smacks, pats, and pokes his ass had received had left him bruised and battered. Todd opined that with all the ice-cold beer and pop flung down their drawers at least the swelling would be minimal.

Chef, in addition to directing traffic, was flitting about the Gunroom, urging the cadets to eat. He had ransacked his Cold Stores and Larders for every delectable goody he could find. The mess table was piled high with salads, cold cuts, rolls, sticky buns and cakes. The cadets, particularly the Sea Puppies, did not need to be told twice, and were merrily stuffing themselves as if they had not seen food for weeks.

When the Twins stepped out of the sawdust square Matt handed each of them a towel. "You guys better change," he said with a slight smile. "You'll catch your death."

Cory looked at Todd, who shrugged. They walked toward their lockers, towelling their hair dry. Matt followed them, not paying any attention to the howls as Stuart danced around after someone (Chef was suspected) put ice cubes down the back of his pants. "Why bother changing? Whatever we put on will just get soaked." Cory threw his towel into his locker. "And who are you?" he asked.

"Just Matt," replied the young man diffidently.

"Matt is Little Big Man's brother, Cory," said Todd. He looked at Matt, who shrugged and smiled, then walked away to get a can of pop from one of the tubs.

The Twins were momentarily distracted when Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, started to holler. Two of his signalmen, who had seen what Chef had done to Stuart, had given him a double whammy, simultaneously putting ice cubes down the front and the back of his bell-bottoms. Nicholas had unfortunately chosen to wear briefs. Wet, and with his privates shrivelled to almost nothing, he cursed loudly as he rushed past the Twins and into the heads where he emptied his underwear of ice cubes and vowed to switch over to boxers.

"Now tell me who he really is," demanded Cory when the shouting subsided. He took off his jumper and soaked gunshirt.

Todd pulled a clean, and dry, gunshirt over his head and stared at his brother. "Little Big Man's brother."

Cory looked at the handsome young man again. "Poor little bastard."

******

Matt sat down beside Ryan and Rob, who were paying more attention to Chris, who's turn it was in the sawdust square, than to who was sitting down beside them. Matt dug Ryan in the ribs. "So don't speak," he muttered in Ryan's ear.

Ryan turned and did a double take. "Hey, Matty, what are you doing here?" he asked. Then he nudged Rob. "Rob, look who's here."

Rob turned and smiled. "Matty, where the hell did you come from?"

"Ottawa?"

"Still a smart ass! Be nice, I'm a Chief now."

"So I heard. Congratulations!" Matt smiled and punched Rob's shoulder. "I got in late last night."

"I thought you were going to Kingston." Ryan got up and reached into one of the tubs for a can of pop. He handed it to Matt.

"I was, but the course got cancelled, so the ACO said I could come out here on Staff. Can I have a beer?"

Rob shook his head. "No. Does Paul know you're here?"

Matt grimaced and shook his head. "I hope not. When he left home I was still Queer Bait."

"Jesus, Matty . . ." Ryan shook his head.

Matt shrugged expressively. "Well, it's a change from faggot and cocksucker."

"He'll never change," muttered Rob. "Looks like it's my turn." He smiled at Ryan and Matt and stepped into the arena. Chef grinned, bowed low, and motioned to Andy who, as Supply Officer, would start Rob's wet down.

"I don't notice Paul. Is he in shit again?" asked Matt, looking around the Gunroom.

Without preamble Ryan told Matt exactly what had happened to his brother. Matt listened intently and then chuckled. "Good."

"He's still your brother, Matty," said Ryan.

"Some brother," grunted Matt. "Do you know what he did on my birthday?" Ryan shook his head. "He called me a blond haired little butt-fucker and gave me one of those fucking T-shirts with the Aryan Nation symbol on it. Then he told my father that he'd seen me with Marty Switzer at the mall."

"Did your Dad . . .?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah, he did."

"Fuck, Matty, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's not your fault." There was a note of resignation in his voice. "The bruises have almost healed. It's going to get worse, Ryan."

"Why?"

"Dad got posted to CFB Lahr."

"Holy shit! Germany? Your Dad got posted to Germany?"

Matt nodded. "Paul will be happy."

Ryan regarded Matt. Poor little bastard, he thought, barely 15 years old and he has to put up with that shit. He nodded toward the sawdust square. "Hey, Matty, the Chiefs are finished. It's our turn now to wet down Rob."

******

After Rob was wet down, Greg's turn came. He bore his ordeal stoically, suffering in silence the tidal wave of beer and pop that filled his pants. He lost his stolid look when Harry, who'd been nipping at some cognac he'd discovered in Fred's locker, grabbed him and gave him a bear hug so tight Greg almost passed out from lack of air. Then Harry kissed him and laughed uproariously. Greg turned beet red. He quickly left the sawdust square and snatched up a towel to dry his hair. Damn you, Harry, he thought, I haven't felt this way since Stephen Tyler and me . . .

Chef was bouncing around, ordering the cadets to eat and the Sea Puppies to stop giggling. The Gunner was trying hard not to look at The Phantom, who was doing his damnedest to stay well away from The Gunner. Both Ray and The Phantom were eyeing the diminishing beer supplies. While most of it was ending up on the cadets being wet down, a huge quantity was finding its way down Chef's throat.

The Phantom leaned over and whispered in Ray's ear, "I better stay over tonight. There ain't no way Chef will be able to get up in time to start breakfast."

Ray nodded. "At the rate he's chugging those beers we'll be lucky if we see him for lunch. Where will you sleep?"

"The lounge. I'll just make up a bed with the cushions from one of the couches. Oh, oh, Two Strokes is up."

A great cheer rose when Two Strokes stepped up for his wet down. While he had mellowed somewhat, and surprised everybody by actually cutting some slack here and there, he was still too much of a Regulating Petty Officer to totally ignore Queen's Regulations and Instructions (Cadets). Thus there was more that one cadet in the mess who welcomed the opportunity to have a small revenge on him.

Kyle had first honours, followed by Tyler. Both were gentle and only wet down Two Strokes' new rank badge. Val, Mike and The Phantom poured a small drop on his shoulder. Harry, who remembered Two Strokes doing everybody's laundry smiled, lifted him up and then lowered him. "You're a shit, Roger, but a good shit," he said with a grin. Then he poured his beer down the front of Two Strokes' jumper.

Matt watched as some of the younger cadets dug around the bottom of the tubs, looking for the coldest cans of pop that they could find. Two Strokes wiggled and squirmed as the young cadets first congratulated him and then quite deliberately doused him in cold pop. There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it. A wet down was a wet down and few rules applied.

Jon was next to have a turn in the barrel. He smiled shyly when he was doused, and wished that he had the nerve to kiss Chris when he came up. But then he saw the look in Chris' eyes and knew that later on tonight Chris would more than make up for not kissing him now.

Because Jon was the most popular of all the Crushers, the Sea Puppies were gentle.

Sylvain stepped up and was awarded by a furious fanfare from the buglers, which Harry complained sounded like all the horses in the Royal Canadian Dragoons had gone on heat at the same time. He was roundly booed. To make amends Harry insisted on bussing Sylvain's cheeks. Before Sylvain could pull back he grabbed the boy's face and gave him a Harry Special. Sylvain's eyes bulged and he later told André (in French) that the effect was such that he could hear his foreskin snap back as he popped a semi.

Sylvain withdrew shaking. It was Harry's turn to be wet down. A great cheer went up and the horn blowing and drum beating was all but drowned by the cheering Sea Puppies.

"Gentlemen of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets," roared Chef, waving his bottle of beer and swaying slightly, "I present to you last, but by no means least . . ." He belched, then hiccupped loudly, which set the Sea Puppies to tittering. Then he saw The Phantom again. "Phantom, my dear boy, how good to see you again." Chef stuck out his hand and The Phantom shook it slowly, a strained smile on his face. "A wonderful night for a wet down," proclaimed Chef. "Clear and cool."

The Phantom nodded his agreement and pulled away. He glanced over and saw The Gunner looking at him. He quickly glanced away and went to stand beside Ray.
Chef looked at Harry, who was looking at Chef. "What are you doing, young feller?" asked Chef.

"My wet down? Remember?" replied Harry placidly.

Chef thought a moment. Then a light seemed to come on. "Of course your wet down. Why didn't you say so?" Randy and Joey, unable to contain themselves any longer, hugged each other, laughing so hard that Chef glared at them. "Impudent pups! Should be spanked!"

"My wet down, Chef?" prompted Harry.

"Don't be after getting your balls in an uproar, Chief, I'm getting to it," replied Chef with a hurt air. "Stevie darlin', sure and I need another beer."

"Are Harry's balls the Pride of the Fleet?" ask Matt.

"No, but they're part of a matched set," replied Rob with a grin.

"Now then, pray silence, my Lords and Gentlemen!" Chef sipped his beer. "I present to you our latest Chief Petty Officer, Harold Franz-Josef von Hohenberg, affectionately known as Harry."

Harry actually blushed. He had thought that no one in AURORA, other than Greg, who kept the personnel records, knew his full name. He reckoned without Chef, who had his own sources.

"Franz Josef?" mouthed Kyle to The Gunner.

The Gunner grinned. "Some mothers do have 'em."

The Twins sidled over and stood beside The Gunner. "Jesus, Gunner, Chef is as pissed as a newt!" said Todd unnecessarily.

"But he managed to shut Harry up. Look, the big lug is blushing." Cory grinned at Harry's discomfiture.

"You'd blush too if your name was Franz-Josef," replied Todd.

"In the absence of anyone of any consequence, I shall perform the honours," intoned Chef with studied dignity. He poured a very small drop of beer on Harry's rank badge. "I am as pissed as a clam," murmured Chef, "but, Harry, know this, the troops think the world of you. Never let them down, and never change." With that he squeezed Harry's shoulder and moved away.

After Andy, Kyle, and Dave had done the honours, The Gunner stepped up. He poured a bigger dollop of beer over Harry's badge. "Harry, for what it's worth, I would sail with you. And take great pride in doing so."

"For fuck's sake, Gunner, stop that, or I'll start crying!" replied Harry, tears welling in his eyes.

"Well, we can't have that," grinned The Gunner. Then he hugged Harry and gave him a huge lip lock.

Harry was so stunned that Young Canada would ever do such a thing, stared open-eyed while the kiss lasted. "Jesus, Gunner . . ." Harry gasped as The Gunner pulled away.

"What's the matter, not as good as a Harry Special?" joked The Gunner.

Harry cocked his head and pretended to think for a moment. "Well, I've kissed better," he lied. Actually he thought it was damn good, and he would not have minded another one. Then he saw the look in The Phantom's eyes. Jesus Christ, I've heard of somebody being green-eyed with jealousy, but this is a man overboard situation!

The Phantom, his eyes snapping, retreated to the heads, where he stood in front of the urinal, pretending to pee, and cursing himself. He was jealous of that kiss. The Gunner could never kiss him, but he could kiss Harry! The Phantom could hear the hooting and hollering as Harry underwent his ordeal, and he raged inwardly.

When he returned, finally, to the Gunroom, The Phantom saw Harry dancing in place from the ice cubes that had been poured down the front and back of his trousers by Tyler and Val. "Jesus Christ!" howled Harry, "That's cold." He reached down the front of his trousers and felt around. "Hell, you almost froze the Pride of the Fleet, you turkeys!"

Cory snorted. "The way you carry on an iceberg couldn't freeze that thing."

Harry fixed a gimlet eye at his tormenter and growled, "Sleep light, Tiger, for the Pride of the Fleet sails tonight!"

Cory gave Harry a Bronx cheer. "If it does you'll have to rename it."

"Rename it?"

"Yeah, you can call it the "Titanic", and not because of it's size."

The Phantom laughed at the bawdiness and stepped up. He poured a beer over Harry, who grabbed him in a hug. "Don't be mad, Phantom," whispered Harry. "He ain't Stefan, and it was just a guy thing."

The Phantom pulled away and nodded. "I know. I'm just being stupid."

"You got that right, Phantom," replied Harry enigmatically.

When The Phantom stood aside all the Sea Puppies, totally ignoring protocol, leaped on their Chief. The pop sprayed and flew in every direction, proving Cory correct. Everybody got wet and for a few moments pandemonium raged. The musicians and buglers tooted and honked, playing a discordant fanfare.

Chef, who was now so drunk he had trouble keeping upright, bellowed loudly and, helped by The Gunner and the officers, managed to restore order. The Twins, every bit as wet as they had been after their wet down, looked down the length of the Gunroom and saw ruination. For all of Tyler's careful preparation, a small river of evil-looking liquid - a combination of pop and beer - oozed out of the sawdust square. The Gunroom table was awash with half-eaten food, and bits and pieces of unidentifiable goodies littered the deck.

"Captain's Rounds, tomorrow," sighed Todd.

Cory nodded, a glum expression on his face. "I suppose the Chief thing would be to start cleaning up." Then he snorted. "My name is Cory Arundel, not King Canute."

One of the Sea Puppies threw a huge draft of cold pop at Harry, who ducked. The small wave hit the deck and splattered, soaking Cory's white bell-bottoms. Cory looked at the cola stains, looked at the ruins of the wet down feast and shrugged. "Fuck it," he laughed, "I'll get the damned mop!"

******

Brian and Dylan's wet downs were placid, and while they were both drowned in pop and beer, nobody kissed them. Steve, smiling broadly, stepped manfully into the sawdust square. He did not expect Stuart, the dourest Presbyterian Scot he had ever met, to step up, wet down his badge, and then kiss him soundly.

"Jesus, Stuart, you do that again and I may have to rethink my position on girls," exclaimed Steve with a lewd grin.

"Do they always kiss each other like that?" asked Matt, thoroughly confused. Maybe all the whining letters his brother had been writing home were true.

"Only on special occasions," replied Rob calmly. "Normally they just pinch each other's bums."

"Except on Sundays. Then they grab each other by the balls and have a good feel," said Ryan.

Matt stared at them, then laughed. "You guys!"

"Matty, just one thing." Ryan leaned forward. "Watch out for Harry," he said in all seriousness.

"Harry?"
"Yeah, he bites bums. Last week he bit Cory's bum and ever since then he can't get enough. Won't go to bed until he's bitten at least one bum."

Matt's mouth dropped. "But . . . but . . . that's . . ."

Rob winked at Ryan. "You won't have to worry unless he tells you that you have a nice bum. If he does, reach for the salt and pepper, because you're the main course."

"And while you're fetching the salt and pepper, bring along a bucket of steam and 50 feet of shoreline," sniggered Ryan.

Matt gasped and punched Ryan on the arm. "You bugger!" Matt had finally realized that he had been a victim of a leg-pull.

The air was rent as Chef suddenly blew his nose explosively. It was Ray's turn to be wet down, and Chef, overcome with emotion and, truth be told, filled to the scuppers with beer, was about to make a speech.

"Shipmates, and you are all my shipmates," Chef boomed ponderously, "The next matelot to be promoted is a man who is close to my heart. I count myself lucky that I have met him." He wiped his eyes with his stained handkerchief. "He's a fine young man, a young man I am proud to call my friend, and a young man, who, if he stays the course, I will be proud to have follow in my footsteps."

The Gunner rolled his eyes and murmured to Kyle, "An erratic path at best!"

Chef, who had not heard The Gunner's snide remark, poured just enough beer over Ray's badge to make it legal. Then he sniffed loudly and hugged his protégé. He stood by while Ray was wet down, smiling happily as the young man laughed and yelled when the cold liquids were poured over him. And he beamed with pride when The Phantom came up and wet down his friend.

"For the first time, Ray, I really wish I was a Sea Cadet," said Phantom as he hugged Ray. "Then I could really sail with you."

"You are a Sea Cadet, Phantom," replied Ray, "and we have sailed together!" He smiled enigmatically as he added silently, in more ways than one, and not the way you think.

The Phantom, taken aback by Ray's almost smug, cryptic comment, wondered just what the words had meant. They had sailed together during the sailing trip to Texada and Harwood, but Ray's words seemed to have a much deeper meaning. Still pondering, he stepped aside as Sandro approached.

Sandro was almost as emotional as Chef, who was drunk. Sandro was Russian, and Ray had been his first real friend. He kissed Ray in the Russian manner, full on the lips. Ray's eyes bugged out. Sandro was one hell of a kisser!

Randy and Joey, giggling like chimps, used pop to baptize Ray's new rank badge. Then they both gave Ray a big hug. "You're the best, Ray," whispered Joey.

"Better than best," offered Randy as he gave Ray an extra hard hug.

Chef broke up the group hug and called for the next victim.

Fred, smiling his usual goofy grin, was next in line. He bore his bath of beer and pop with equanimity. Nothing at all seemed to bother him. His wet down was, to him, just another milestone in life, although he could have done without the quick feels from some of the Puppies, who had heard that he had a huge dick and wanted to feel it for themselves.

Thumper was up next. Since he wasn't as bad as Two Strokes in his enforcement of the rules, and everybody liked him, so while the Puppies, drummers and the flute player drenched him properly, he got off relatively lightly. Still, he ended up as sodden as a dishrag, his uniform whites clinging to his body and revealing, as was pointed out by half a dozen giggling Sea Puppies, that he wasn't wearing any underwear.

Harry, still into the cognac, called Thumper a disgrace. Then in atonement for his unkind words, he begged forgiveness and slobbered all over Thumper's hand as he tried to kiss it. Thumper squealed and pulled away. "Jesus, Harry I have to use that hand." He wiped his spit-covered hand on his jumper and walked away muttering, not at all pleased when a great roar went up.

"And we know what for!"

Chef, who was drinking a beer at the time, almost choked. The Gunner, Andy, and Kyle retired to the stoop until they got their laughter under control. They heard a commotion and returned to the Gunroom where they saw Harry chasing Thumper around the room.

Harry was very sorry and wanted to make amends. Thumper, who knew that Harry making amends meant Harry kissing, eluded his pursuer and scampered into the heads where he locked himself into a cubicle. He refused to come out until Harry promised to behave, which he did. Thumper, not quite believing Harry, darted into the Gunroom and stood behind the Twins, who agreed to protect him. "Just don't kiss me!" pleaded Thumper.

The Twins assured Thumper solemnly that they would not kiss him. They liked him, but not that much.

When the tumult died down Ryan stepped into the arena. The Gunner, worried that Ryan's infection was not yet under control, stepped forward, prepared to prevent any unintentional injury to the boy. A look from Ryan stopped him. If having cold beer and pop poured over his body and down the front and back of his trousers was a part of his rite of passage from mere Leading Cadet to Petty Officer, he was prepared to suffer whatever was necessary.

Rob, as aware as The Gunner of Ryan's plight, was also prepared to intervene if things got too far out of hand. Ryan ignored them both.

In the absence of a herd of storekeepers the drummers advanced, cans of pop in hand. Rob winced, but Ryan remained calm.

In the event Ryan withstood his ordeal with great dignity and, if the truth were told, having ice and cold liquids poured over his privates was not all that bad. In fact it was not the effect of the icy liquids, and the painkillers he had taken, on his dick - which wasn't hurting at all - that worried him. His balls were a different matter and he fretted slightly as he felt them frantically seek the heat they needed by shrivelling in his sac and withdrawing deep within his groin.

When Ryan returned to his seat beside Rob he was beaming. The Gunner patted him on his shoulder and gave him a shot of cognac (which he had confiscated from a protesting Harry, who promptly found the bottle of Scotch that Nicholas had been saving for the final night aboard). "Drink this. It will help put some warmth back into you," said The Gunner with a grin.

The din created by the buglers and drummers from the Bugle Band would have drowned out any reply that Ryan might have made as André, their "Sticks", entered the sawdust square. Ryan mouthed a "Thank you" to The Gunner, who retired to the sidelines.

With André, the wet downs ended. Chef immediately began circling the Gunroom, urging everybody to eat up. The Gunner motioned Ray and The Phantom over to where he was standing. He put his arms around the boys' shoulders. To The Gunner's surprise, The Phantom did not shrug him off. "I'm very proud of you two, and you know that Chef thinks the world of you both."

"Leading up to?" asked The Phantom cynically.

If The Phantom expected The Gunner to rise to the bait of his cynicism, he was about to be disappointed. "Look, guys, Chef is blitzed," said The Gunner calmly, "and there's no way he can come in at 0400 and function. Can you two handle breakfast? You know, cover for him?"

The Phantom gave The Gunner a withering look. "We'd do that anyway, sir."

Ray, who knew that something was going on between The Gunner and Phantom, just not what, did not want to see a bad situation get worse, and quickly spoke up. "It's only basics for breakfast, bacon, eggs, toast. Isn't that right, Phantom?"

The Phantom, realizing that The Gunner had meant nothing mean by his request, and also realizing that he was still jealous of that kiss between The Gunner and Harry, pulled away. "Yeah, no problem, sir. Ray and me, we can handle it."

The Gunner, secretly pleased that Phantom was acting they way he was - he had quite deliberately kissed Harry to see what Phantom's reaction would be - thanked both boys and began, with Andy and Kyle, to steer Chef out of the Gunroom and into The Gunner's car. Chef would spend the night on the sofa in The Gunner's living room.

With the officers and The Gunner gone, Tyler began shooing the guests and hangers-on out of the Gunroom. The Phantom,